


Ophelia Rising

by muffin_song



Category: Majishan no Yuutsu | A Magician's Misfortunes (Takarazuka musical)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muffin_song/pseuds/muffin_song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For three years, Marek didn't even have memories for comfort.  Now she has a husband and an entire life, neither of which she can remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ophelia Rising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taelle/gifts).



Shakespeare may have said that rosemary was for remembrance, but she had nothing to remember.

Although she had drowned in a fiery car wreck rather than by water, she was Ophelia. She walked the world of the dead, sputtering beautiful nonsense. Indeed, words had little meaning to her in this world. The gravedigger’s wife spoke to her kindly, but always as if she was a small child. Sometimes she was able to string her words into sentences, or even questions. But her caretaker’s tone never changed no matter how hard she tried to make her own voice make sense, nor did she ever receive answers to her questions. At some point she gave up trying.

For as long as she could remember, she had only pansies (Ophelia had told Laertes they were for thoughts). With no memories to cling to, her time in the crypt was a never-ending blur of thoughts and images. Although Boldizsar later told her she had been down there for three years, it could have been three days or three centuries by her reckoning.

She supposed in retrospect that she should have been terrified, given the amount of time she spent with only the dead for company. Perhaps at first, when she was pulled from the flaming wreckage of her car and dosed with drugs, she tried to fight it, and had indeed felt fear. But time makes everything familiar, and she learned to become comfortable with (and even fond of) her strange, skeletal companions.

Three years truly could have become three centuries if it weren’t for the events of that day. At first she wasn’t sure what to make of the two strangers who appeared in her home uninvited. For so long there had only been the gravedigger, his wife, and the crypt. For all that the crypt had many twists and turns, she had never discovered an end, nor a way out. She supposed this could be all that existed in the world – at least until two squabbling strangers came crashing in.

She had supposedly known Veronika for years, but neither the sight of the strangers in her home nor the man’s desperate talk of conspiracies did anything to disrupt her usual nonsensical, singsong melody. No, it was a mere word spoken by the woman that broke through her haze and pulled apart her haphazardly constructed world.

 _Boldizsar_. She liked the sound of the word as it rolled off her tongue. Like everything else, there were no memories that came with the word. But for the first time, there were feelings she didn’t previously realize she had held within her. Familiarity. Loss. Love.

The strangers continued their heated dialogue with the gravedigger and his wife. She tried the word again, letting it roll off her lips slowly this time. It hadn’t just been her imagination. She knew instinctively that this word was a person – was such knowledge a memory? She tried another word – Veronika. This one wasn’t as strong, but it too left lingering feelings.

Both the gravedigger’s wife and the strange woman had their hands on her. They were twisting through her familiar tunnels, turning so quickly that Marek lost track of where they were going. For all that she thought this small place was the entire world—and she knew all of it—she soon she found herself in undiscovered territory.

And then abruptly, she was pulled from the water and dragged up to the surface. After so long underground the sunlight was overwhelming and hurt her eyes.

Marek. The female stranger had called her Marek.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gravedigger’s wife accompanied Marek to Veronika’s car. One final, desperate embrace from her caregiver, and the last remnant of Marek’s previous world was gone.

All three occupants of the car were silent for most of the ride. Buildings, streets, and people flew past them as they drove, mirroring Marek’s own sense of disorientation. Occasionally Veronika would put a hand on her arm. Marek was unsure if the gesture was for comfort, or to ensure her rescuer that she wouldn’t disappear into smoke. Marek herself wasn’t so sure of the latter.

All too soon the car came to a stop, and her two unlikely saviors ushered her inside a regal-looking home. The gravedigger and his wife owned few possessions, and all of them were nearly as ancient as the couple themselves. Simply trying to take in her surroundings was dizzying. An ornate mirror in the entryway caught her gaze. The pale, ragged creature looking back at Marek startled her until she realized that she controlled it with her own movements. She brought a hand to her face. So this was what she looked like.

She had been ignoring the bickering between Veronika and her partner until a frantic third voice joined them. She looked up just in time to see the source of the voice engulf her with strong arms. He smelled of cologne and jasmine. “Marek.” The man whispered her name as if it were a prayer. Over and over again. His hand trembled as he brought her closer to him.

Marek somehow knew that displays of weakness were forbidden to men. From the sight of this man, with his immaculate suit and air of authority, she knew he was no exception to the rules. And yet tears fell shamelessly down his face. At the sight of _her_ , with her tattered dress and wild eyes.

“Marek, Marek, Marek…” For all the man’s fervor, he was a stranger to her.

“Your highness-“ Veronika started.

So this was Boldizsar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With great effort on the part of the household staff, the wild look was cleansed from her. Women scrubbed at her skin and ran brushes through her hair until she bruised and tears fell from her eyes. This brought an abrupt stop to the scrubbing and hair pulling. An older woman clucked at the others for overwhelming “the poor thing” and shooed them out of the room.

“There, there,” she whispered, once they were alone. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you Your Highness?” Many had called her that. Marek only nodded silently. She was relieved that the woman was content to mutter hypothetical questions to herself and leave Marek to silence. The events of recent hours had forced her to string together words to answer questions, but they came out of her mouth haltingly.

“There,” the woman said, letting a hand rest on her shoulder. “You look much more like yourself, Princess.” She held up a mirror. The face looking back at Marek was elegant and much less disheveled, but even more a stranger. Only the wild, lost look in her eyes was familiar.

Over the next few days, most of Marek’s knowledge of her life was returned to her by hearsay rather than from memory. She was an aristocrat by birth, a princess by marriage. She had attended one of the most rigorous universities in England (no one had informed her of what exactly she had studied, and Marek herself was clueless). She drank her coffee black and always rose early in the morning.

And she had died in a car accident, at least as far as anyone knew until recently. As of last week, the several years past car accident became known as a murder. And as of three days ago, Marek’s murder had curiously transformed into a kidnapping and a conspiracy. The rapidity of this change had no mercy on her, a walking dead woman.

She never had felt hungry per se during her time in the crypt. The regular intervals of porridge delivered to her were as unchanging as her silent world. But now that food was put before her frequently - hot and with a hundred different flavors - Marek found her appetite growing, and with it her senses slowly sharpened. The world became less blurred.

Her mind too was slowly clearing, but with clarity came the realization of the empty void inside of her. She had rote facts about her life, but nothing inside to accompany what she was told.

The times Boldizsar came to see her, he looked like a man starved. He fretted over her to such an extent it was nearly comical, bringing a true smile to her face for the first time since she emerged from underground. For all that her husband was intense, there was a charm to his mania. And for all that he fussed over her, there was a deep tenderness underneath. He told her he would give her as much time as she needed, and that he loved her even if her memory never returned.

Still, she remembered nothing. The feelings were familiar, yet they connected nowhere. For all that Marek was dressed like a princess, inside she was nothing more than a wild-eyed girl who sang nonsense in the world of the dead.

How could this man say that he loved her, and so unconditionally?

Was it even possible to be in love with someone you were unable to recall?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes Marek begged to be left alone for a while – the world was simply spinning too quickly, the voices were too loud, the colors too bright. She was embarrassed by how hastily those around her accommodated her request, whether it be some state official or a lady attending to her or even her husband.

Of course, being alone in her room quickly grew tiresome also. Marek may have been content with the world of her crypt for three years, but now she found herself restless in her new refuge.

Once when exploring Princess Marek’s quarters, she came across an album of photos from her own wedding. As Marek flipped through the pages, she played a morbid game of trying to guess the identities of the different people featured in the pictures. Was the happy, plump man in this photo a relative of hers? A friend of her husband? Or was he some state official or social climber who had weaseled himself an invitation?

Boldizsar himself was of course familiar, if only through their recent acquaintance. He was younger in the photos, of course, and fewer lines of worry marked his regal face. Marek wondered when those had appeared. One picture featured a newly titled Princess Marek feeding her husband wedding cake. They looked…genuinely happy.

Over and over again she tormented herself with questions. Did this photo make her recall anything? Maybe. No, that was just her imagination, just the results of trying so hard that her mind was playing tricks on her. Did these feelings actually come from within her heart, or was it just a smile at another couple’s happiness?

The game was becoming too cruel. Marek set the album down. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she calmed herself enough to open them again, she hastily stashed the volume underneath her bed. It could do her no harm there.

She had fled to her quarters for solace and relief from the spinning world around her, but looking at the photos left her even more unsettled than before. Marek paced across the length of the room several times. The exercise only served to increase her agitation and frantic energy. Twenty steps from one end to the other. Fifteen if she increased the length of her stride. Over and over again. Had anything actually changed since the days when she spent her time pacing a tomb rather than a palace room?

Marek’s dress caught the corner of a small table, and before she could react gravity sent her sprawling downwards. Pain bloomed across her right knee as she hit the floor. She let out a most un-princess-like curse, and tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. The irony that Marek could somehow remember how to swear but not her own birthday was not lost on her.

Being on the floor gave her a new view of the room. Princess Marek’s possessions stared down at her cruelly, mocking her with their unknown histories, the secrets that were always just beyond her. Photos. Books. (The books were among the most offensive relics of her forgotten past – how could she remember the lives and fates of Shakespeare’s many creations but not her own?) A thousand trinkets with no meaning to her filled the room.

She managed to sit upright, hugging her knees close to her chest. The silk of her dress felt cool and smooth against her bare fingers. Her gaze settled on a vase of intricately woven silk flowers. The artificial blooms likely cost as much as the gravediggers would make in a month, the vase as much as they would earn in a year.

She smiled bitterly. Wasn’t she supposed to be Princess Marek, for whom such expenses were a trifle? She picked up one of the flowers idly. “There’s fennel for you, and columbines,” she whispered. She let the flower drop from her hands onto the floor. Hamlet. The bookmark placed in one of the volumes on her bookshelf told her that days before her supposed death, she had been reading Shakespeare. With the most basic details of her life gone, she had only the English playwright for company.

She picked up another flower, this one with a particularly exquisite and complex design of embroidery. It took surprisingly little effort to tear it in two. “There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me.” Rue was for regret, wasn’t it? Tears welled up in her eyes uninvited. Her voice shook, but still she continued the words. “O you must wear your rue with a difference.” Slowly she rose into her feet. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the priceless vase and hurled it into the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces with a loud crash.

“There's a daisy!” she shouted, unknown fury spilling out of her. Sobs she had been holding back for weeks finally spilled out of her. “I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died!” No, that wasn’t right. It was what Shakespeare had written, but not what she was trying to say. “When I died,” Marek whispered. Her breathing was deep and audible.

In her rage she hadn’t been aware of the quickening footsteps coming towards the room, nor the sound of the door opening. Boldizsar. Her face flushed crimson with shame. She had fled here so that her husband wouldn’t see the wild creature that lurked beneath her fine dress.

He crossed the length of the room with several strides. A moment of hesitation in his eyes, and then he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

There was one more line in Ophelia’s speech. Breathing in and out one more time, the words came to her at least. “They say he made a good end,” she managed to finish with a whisper. The world slowly stopped its rapid spin. Boldizsar pulled her closer to him, his hands stroking her back in time with her breathing. Her husband always had a manic energy about him, but his touch was gentle now.

“Marek-“ Boldizsar began.

“I’m not Marek.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I mean…I know that I _was_ Princess Marek.” She kept her gaze firmly on the floor. “I don’t know who I am now.”

She had finally said it. The words now spoken aloud only weighed her down more heavily, rather than relieving Marek of her burden. Boldizsar’s warmth against her was becoming too much, and she didn’t deserve such tenderness. When she pulled away to free herself from hold, her husband didn’t stop her. She looked at the wreckage of her fury. What a mess. She knelt before the broken pieces and began to sweep them into a pile with her hands.

“I…it’s not the same, but…sometimes I don’t know who I am either.” The words came out of Boldizsar’s mouth hastily, spilling over each other. Marek turned her head to meet her husband’s gaze. Years of training to be the country’s ruler left him with a constant air of authority that he could shed no more easily than he could take off his own skin. He was bare and vulnerable now. “We had such dreams of transforming this country, Marek.” His tone was wistful and sad. “You always challenged me to do better than I thought I could, and but since that day…I’ve failed you. I’ve become as cynical as the old men we used to despise.” For all of his usual passion, Boldizsar looked weary now, the lines of worry on his face more pronounced. “I’ve gotten so…old.” The words were offered up like a confession, and her husband strained underneath their weight. The heaviness could either pull Boldizsar, or he could finally be freed of it.

Marek slowly rose to her feet. Her balance was shaky. With every step she worried she would stumble and be pulled into the water to drown, but somehow she made it to her husband’s side. She clasped her hands over one of his.

A small smile crossed her lips. “You don’t seem so bad.” She took one hand away to run a finger through his hair, tucking a stray lock back into place behind his ear. Her face was only inches away from his.

“You’re not so bad either,” he murmured. Once again, that feeling in her chest of something so wonderful it hurt. She let her head resting on the crook between his shoulder and neck. The jasmine scent still lingered, accompanied by a faint whiff of coffee. Boldizsar moved his free hand to her back.

“Do you remember the debate we were having in the lecture where we first met?” Marek tensed slightly, and Boldizsar quickly backpedaled. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that…I realized last year, on our anniversary, that I could no longer remember exactly which politician you were claiming must have been secretly Welsh.” Amusement flickered through his eyes before the solemn look returned. “I felt like I was betraying your memory.”

Marek looked up to raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t be silly.”

He gave her a small smile. “I’m trying to make a point.”

Marek let out a sad laugh. “There’s a difference between forgetting a small anecdote and an entire relationship, Boldizsar.”

“I know. And I’m not trying to…” Marek nodded. “It’s just I could write down every memory I have. Bind it in a journal, make a thousand copies.” He touched a finger to his chest. “And yet the sum of me would still be here. And when I disappear from this world, a record of my memories would not hold my soul.” He pulled her tightly to him. “I know _you_ . Not just the stories, not just the memories. That’s all I need…I don’t need memories. I meant it when I said that all I needed was the you I see in front of me now.”

She had nearly gained her composure, and now the damnable man was threatening to make her lose it again. No, she was a princess, and she was also a wild girl who could look at human bones without so much as flinching. There. That was better. “Pretend…for a second Ophelia hadn’t drowned. Could the Prince of Denmark really love the crazed maiden he returned home to?”

Boldizsar let out a hearty laugh. “Hamlet was an ass who couldn’t see past his own drunken melodrama. Besides, I don’t think Ophelia is the appropriate metaphor here.”

“What would you suggest, then?”

“You were always better at Shakespeare than I, my dear. But perhaps Viola.”

Marek gave her husband a mischievous look. “Perhaps you should lend me one of your suits if you expect me to disguise myself as a boy.”

“Only if you insist, my dear.” He leaned down to brush his lips against her forehead. She didn’t know if the quickening of her heart came from a memory or a daydream, and for once, she didn’t care. “I was thinking more of Viola as a courageous explorer. For although she was lost and frightened in an unknown land, nothing was out of her reach.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story originally started out as, “What happens to Marek and Boldizsar in the future?”, but somewhere along the way became a retelling of Magician no Yutsuu from Marek’s perspective. I did, however, want to show how Marek could go from crazed in the crypt to sane in her reunion with her husband. I also wanted to position her for a future where she could reclaim some happiness, even if it was unknown if her memory would return. Thanks to my lovely beta, you know who you are! <3


End file.
